[Tony Stark POV]
Man, everything I've done up until now has felt so perfectly ordinary, so strangely normal, that not once did I actually stop to admire it for what it truly was. Not once did I pause long enough to consider how utterly absurd and unnatural my actions truly were when seen from the outside. And yet… he was right. I was enjoying myself. How could I not? Who wouldn't, if they somehow found themselves in my position—caught between the impossible and the extraordinary, living a life most people could only dream of? He was putting everything into perspective without even trying.
Still, there was one thing I couldn't shake, one lingering question that had been festering at the back of my mind. I turned to Stan, watching him with a searching expression before finally speaking.
"Say," I began carefully, "are you, perhaps, the reason I was reincarnated? The reason I ended up where I am now?"
"Who knows," he replied again, in that same maddeningly casual tone. His shrug was careless, almost lazy, and yet the faint curl of his lips told a different story. That smile said he was enjoying himself far more than he was letting on. He was seriously getting under my skin. And yet, despite my irritation, I couldn't help but find it a little amusing.
I smirked, resting my arms over the back of the bench. Tilting my head back, I spoke softly but sincerely. "Thank you." The words came from somewhere deep inside me. Even if he denied it, even if he laughed it off, I knew—somewhere, somehow—he had a hand in all of this.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, his smirk widening as if to mock me. "I haven't done anything that deserves to be thanked."
I scoffed and shook my head. "Deny it all you want, but I know you had something to do with this. Thank you for the second chance. I don't know what I did to deserve it—or if there's some grand plan behind all this—but I'm still grateful for the opportunity."
"How humble," he replied in a playful tone, eyes glinting with mischief. "So unlike you."
"Huh?!" I shot him a mock glare, sitting up straighter. "What do you mean, so unlike me? I'm the humblest man there is. No one's as humble as I am. If there were a contest for humility, I'd win second place just to prove how humble I am!"
"And there it is…" Stan chuckled faintly, shaking his head as if he'd been expecting that exact response.
A comfortable silence settled over us after that, a rare and delicate thing. Together, we stared out into the endless white space in front of us, neither of us needing to fill the void with words. It was peaceful. But peace never lasts long, does it? Stan shifted slightly, glancing at me with a more serious expression this time.
"Can I ask you something?" he said quietly. "You don't have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable."
I turned to look at him, curiosity piqued by his sudden shift in tone, and gave him a small nod to go ahead.
"Why do you try so hard to act like the original Tony Stark?" he asked, his voice measured but not unkind. "You could be your own person, but instead you wear this mask—this persona—that at some point you stopped taking off. It's like you lost yourself inside the performance until it fused with who you really are. You got so deep into the role that it fundamentally changed you, and I can't help but wonder… why?"
His question stopped me cold. It wasn't the sort of thing I'd expected to hear, and for a moment I could only stare at him, stunned. There was no malice in his tone, no hidden barbs in his words—just honest curiosity. Still, the question hit far too close to home.
I leaned back against the bench, staring upward. My eyes closed slowly as I exhaled a long breath. If there was anyone who deserved the truth, anyone I might actually tell this to, it would be him. My voice came out quieter than I expected. "Because I was scared…"
I didn't look at him. I didn't want to see his reaction—didn't want to read anything in his expression. I just spoke.
"I was thrust into a brand-new life, in a completely foreign world, with no one to really rely on but myself. I was suddenly Tony Stark—or at least, a version of him—in a dangerous reality where every mistake could cost me everything. And I didn't think I was good enough to survive." My throat tightened as I forced myself to keep going. "How could I? I wasn't anything impressive in my previous life. I was nobody."
"I realized that if I wanted to make it in a world like this, I couldn't afford to remain the same person I used to be. I needed to shed that skin, bury the self that would have never lasted here, and become someone else entirely. Someone capable. Someone who could rise to meet the impossible. And with everything that was handed to me… who else could I become but Tony Stark?"
My hands came together, fingers interlaced, elbows resting on my knees as I leaned forward. My voice grew quieter, more reflective. "I thought… if I could be even a fraction of who he was—just one percent of his brilliance, his confidence, his strength—then maybe, just maybe, I'd have a fighting chance. If I pretended I wasn't scared… if I acted like I wasn't alone… then maybe I wouldn't be. And, in a way, it worked. I may have lost pieces of myself along the way, but that felt like a small price to pay compared to the alternative."
Stan studied me for a long moment before asking, in a tone far gentler than usual, "And do you regret it?"
I didn't answer right away. His question sat heavy in my chest, and for a moment, I let myself really consider it. Did I regret it? All the years of pretending, of slowly erasing the old me until only the mask remained? The answer came almost immediately, and a small, wry smile tugged at my lips. "No," I said firmly, shaking my head. "I don't regret it."
A quiet chuckle escaped me, almost self-deprecating, but there was warmth in it too. "I mean, look at me—I've made it this far, haven't I? I've become someone capable, someone dependable. Someone others can actually look up to. The person I was before… he can't even hold a candle to who I am now. And maybe that sounds like I'm belittling my past self, but honestly? I think he'd be proud. Proud, and maybe even relieved to see who I've become. So no, not even a little bit of regret."
I felt a hand patting my back, steady and reassuring. Finally, I allowed myself to glance sideways, and there he was, smiling at me—not smugly, not mockingly, but warmly.
"I appreciate your honesty," Stan said softly. "Takes a lot of courage to admit when you're afraid. And if you're happy with who you are now… then that's what matters most."
I returned his smile, though mischief crept into my eyes. "You know… since I was honest with you, maybe it's your turn to return the favor."
He tilted his head curiously, and I pressed on.
"Why wasn't I born with a quirk? Be straight with me. Was it destiny? Fate? Some grand plan to make sure I'd end up as Iron Man or something?"
Stan's grin widened, and that look came over his face—one I immediately disliked. His eyes glimmered with amusement as he leaned in ever so slightly. "Do you really want me to be honest with you?"
The sight of that expression made my stomach twist. I threw up my hands almost instantly. "Nope. Not anymore. Not with that look. Forget I asked—please, for the love of everything, lie to me."
He chuckled, patting my shoulder with mock sympathy before delivering the blow.
"You were just really unlucky to be born in the twenty percent without one."
I froze, staring at him in disbelief. My face must've been priceless, because within seconds he was laughing—full, unrestrained laughter.
"You're joking, right?" I asked, incredulous.
"Not even a little," he said between laughs. "Think about it. You had an eighty percent chance of being born with a quirk. Eighty! And yet somehow, you managed to roll snake eyes. Statistically speaking, you're a miracle of bad luck."
His laughter only grew louder, echoing in the blank space around us. I sat back, jaw clenched, running my tongue slowly over my teeth as I watched him laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world.
He was enjoying himself way too much. And he was seriously, seriously getting on my nerves.
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